The Curse of the Feds
by madame.alexandra
Summary: or, the fight Gibbs & Jenny should have had. A story that fleshes out the tensions that ran through Season 4 & Jenny's ruthless pursuit of the Frog. He calls her out for abusing her power; she calls him out for quitting and the way he treated people when he came back from Mexico. It's a hell of a fight. Jibbs. Angst (oh, the angst). Fairly dark.


_A/N: I am willing to establish this as one of the, if not THE, angstiest things I've ever written. It is very loosely connected to a one-shot I wrote a while back called "Unlikely Hero" that was Season 4 related, and quite DiNozzo/Jenny centric. What this is, is the result of a conversation my friend Flynn and I had concerning what Gibbs would do if he found out about those two sleeping together that morphed into something more. _

_Essentially, this is **the fight that Gibbs & Jenny should have had**. It's all the unaddressed issues that needed to be fleshed out at the end of Season 4/Beginning of Season 5. It's not pretty, it's very raw (violent, though not in an out of character way) and speaks to the problems each character has, and why their relationship, essentially, was fucked up/doomed. _

_Setting: Post "Bury Your Dead", the night after the team has raided La Grenouille's boat and found nothing. _

* * *

_I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself_  
_Make love to me_  
_like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did _

_~We Were Emergencies; Buddy Wakefield _

* * *

He was not surprised at the sound of her heels clicking on the linoleum laundry room floor and then moments later on his worn wooden staircase, but for once in his life he didn't _want_ to hear it. He didn't want to see her, speak to her, or remember her—the way she had been.

He hadn't sought her out at work, hadn't read her in on what they had found at the Marina—because they had found nothing, and he had nothing to say to her. He was busy fielding his team's questions about where DiNozzo was, because he didn't know himself. He was busy cleaning up her messes, and for the first time, he looked back on her mistakes in Paris and saw them clearly as careless _mistakes_ he never should have covered for her, because it had only told her that she could do whatever the hell she wanted without consequence.

Shoot the wrong man in France, and get off scot free, because your boss doesn't want to lose his booty call; compromise a CIA operation and muck up the integrity of NCIS, and don't bat an eye—you can lay the blame on your _subordinate_.

Gibbs smoothed his hand over the five letters carved into his boat, his fingers tracing through the curves of the K, the lines of the L's, and the elegant swish of the Y. She was looking at him from the foot of the stairs, her eyes boring into the back of his neck as steadily as he was ignoring her.

He turned to look at her, and without a word he met her eyes and then strode to his shelves, pulling a bottle down. His movements were jerky and violent as he emptied two makeshift glasses: a Mason jar, and an old coffee tin full of nuts and bolts. He poured his, and he slammed the bottle down next to the empty Mason jar; he made it silently clear she could pour her own.

Her heels clicked slowly as she approached, and she dipped her nails into the inside rim of the jar, clearing it of dust. She lifted her fingers and blew on them, her nose wrinkling slightly—_not good enough for you, Jen?—_he thought to himself, and looked at her coolly.

Her index finger ran around the outside rim of the jar, and she gripped the neck of his bourbon bottle with her other hand, examining the label.

_Wild Turkey. _

He knew she liked Jack, but Jack wasn't real bourbon; wasn't Kentucky brewed and aged.

"Your team didn't check back in after the raid on the Marina," she remarked, breaking the silence, her fingers still wrapped delicately around the bottle.

She moved the Mason jar, and her hand shook. He narrowed his eyes slightly, wondering why she was hesitating with the alcohol. He lifted the aluminum coffee can to his lips and shrugged his shoulders stiffly.

"Think you know damn well why, Jen," he retorted.

The unspoken indictment was there—the boat had been empty, except for the coat belonging to Rene Benoit, and there had been no body, but he wasn't stupid. Men didn't just disappear, and if he bet a million bucks that dragging the Potomac would turn up the body of the Frog, he'd end up rich. And to double that amount, he'd just have bet she put him there.

She clinked the glass Mason jar against the bottle of bourbon.

"Is that an accusation?" she asked callously.

He looked at her; she arched an eyebrow. Curving his finger around the rim of his coffee tin, he pointed to her right eye, saying nothing, until she blinked, and her eyes flicked downward, away from him.

"I won't ask," he said gruffly. "Wouldn't want to take away your plausible deniability."

Her pupils contracted angrily, and she compressed her lips in a tight, frustrated line. She finally lifted the bottle of bourbon and poured the amber liquid into her jar, and he noticed her hand was unsteady, and she spilled some on his wooden counter. He reached out to steady her, his hand covering hers, and he looked at her a little more closely.

"You start without me?" he asked, leaning closer—as if he would smell her breath.

Her head snapped back, her eyes hard.

"Isn't it NCIS modus operandus to have a good shot of bourbon after a bitch of a case?" she quipped, cocking a brow. "Or is that just you?"

"You drive?"

"My security detail dropped me off."

He wrenched the bottle from her and slid her jar closer to her hand, pushing it into her palm. She picked it up, giving him a sort of mocking, gallant nod of her head in thanks, and turned her head to look at the boat while she took the first drink, her lashes fluttering together as she swallowed.

"Why're you here?" he asked.

She lifted her shoulders.

"Ran out of bourbon," she snapped back harshly, clearly nettled by his accusation that she'd been drinking.

He didn't care if his accusation pissed her off; it was obvious she _had_ been. She shrugged again and took another drink, licking her lips as she swallowed. Her eyes narrowed on the boat, stricken, glazed almost.

"The same reason I'm always here," she said bitterly. "The same reason you were in my hotel room after bad days in Europe. For you to fuck me harder than I hate myself."

If he was surprised by her words, he didn't show it—and he wasn't. He was never shocked by blunt, vulgar honesty from Jen—anymore than he was shocked that tigers mauled their prey. He admitted, silently, to himself, that he had been _shocked_ by the alternate nature of subterfuge and deception she had exhibited in the midst of this amphibious affair—but he had quickly been forced to realize, to accept, that she wasn't the woman he'd trained in Paris; that woman had been lost somewhere along the way from Paris to Eastern Europe to Cairo—to the Director's chair.

She turned to face him, tilting her head up to look at him before she finished the bourbon in her jar. He watched her throat move as she swallowed, reaching out to run his finger down the column of her neck, tracing skin, feeling the muscles move. Her breath hitched as she lowered her head and turned her lips into his wrist, brushing them against his pulse point. He let his eyes wander over her, as if he were _deciding_ if he wanted her or not, and that ticked her off a little; she took his hand and pulled it to her breast, reaching out and clutching his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers.

He kissed back, his hand following her lead for a moment and groping roughly with her buttons, and then within her shirt at her bra, and he then he changed his mind and withdrew his hand, pulling her towards him and trapping her roughly between his body and the counter between them. She gasped, and he broke into her mouth with his tongue, possessing, unrestrained. She felt like she couldn't breathe and held onto him tightly, shoving at his chest a little.

He ran his hands brusquely down her sides until he reached the edges of her skirt and pulled it up her thighs, bunching it in his hands and grabbing her hips in the same grip. He lifted her onto the shelf, taking pleasure in the way her heels and calves banged against the wood, and pushed her knees apart so he could step between them.

She pushed his shoulders back, fingers pinching the skin at his neck reproachfully.

"Jethro," she warned, her green eyes glittering with some mild apprehension. "That hurt," she snapped pointedly.

He didn't acknowledge what she'd said, but she knew he'd heard her. He pushed her leg up until her heel was resting on the counter and he could see straight up her skirt to the violet panties she had on—which he noticed, didn't match the white bra he'd just roughed up, so she was losing her seductive touch.

He reached for the tops of her stockings and pulled the flimsy material off her leg, taking her black pump with it, and letting them both fall to the floor carelessly. His lips brushed her knee, and he let her think for a moment he was going to continue to kiss up her thigh before he stopped abruptly and leaned forward into her, his hand slipping up between them, shoving aside the panties.

With his other hand, he reached for her head, running his fingers through her short hair and coaxing her towards him until he could narrow his eyes at her, his lashes almost touching hers, and his lips brushing hers when he spoke.

He plunged two fingers into her, and he wasn't gentle, and she gasped, her eyes closing, her lips parting. He kissed her, courteously letting her adjust for a moment, and she moaned softly into his mouth, her shoulders shivering.

"This what you wanted?" he asked in a low voice. There was no warmth in his tone, no indication that he was remembering the same post-work, comforting rolls-in-the-hay she was.

She nodded, her tongue slipping against his, desperately seeking reciprocation, and he let himself get distracted by the kiss for a moment, still stimulating her with his hand with no real regard for her comfort or pleasure—though she was, he sensed, enjoying it. She grabbed his shoulders tightly, hanging onto him, legs spread for him like some whore he'd called to take his anger out on—because that's what it felt like, suddenly, out of left field; it didn't feel good, it didn't feel like being with _Jenny,_ it felt cold and disconnected and—she gasped and broke the kiss, her nose pressing into his cheek, stomach tightening against his arm as she tried to plaster herself closer to him, and he could smell bourbon on her, and then he realized he could taste it, too, almost choking him—she was _drunk_, and he didn't want to sleep with her, he didn't want anything to do with her, because this wasn't the Jenny he had known, and she was using him like she had used everyone else he gave a damn about.

He abruptly pulled back, his eyes flying open, taking his hands off of her. He shoved her hands off his shoulders and rubbed his hands on his jeans, his eyes on hers in a blank, cold stare, and she caught her breath, looking at him hazily, a crinkle of confusion appearing on her nose. He saw the anger flare in her eyes as she tried to catch her breath, and she ran her hand over her chest, clutching the strap of her bra and her shirt together to keep them from falling off her shoulder.

She closed her eyes and turned her head.

"Why did you stop?" she asked huskily. "Don't—don't stop," she murmured, her brow furrowing again.

She crossed her legs self-consciously, opening her eyes and leaning forward. Her lips were swollen, red, lipstick smudged. He ran his hands across his own mouth to wipe her lipstick off, and clenched his jaw, overwhelmed for a moment by her scent and tempted to ignore his instincts and fuck her—what had she said?—harder than she hated herself.

He couldn't do it.

"I don't want to do this," he said curtly, shaking his head slightly.

"What?"

He stormed over and took his cell phone from the shelf, shoving it into her hands.

"Call your driver," he ordered. "Go home."

"_What_?" she demanded again, shoving it right back into his chest violently. She clenched her teeth and her eyes narrowed dangerously, flickering with uncertainty and shock and—embarrassment, because she had thrown herself at him, and he had turned her down, and she wasn't equipped to deal with that, because she knew he still wanted her, and he wasn't supposed to be able to say no.

He repeated himself, and tried to force her to take the phone back, and she balked, grabbing it and throwing it across the basement so it shattered against the opposite wall.

"Jen," he growled warningly.

"Go _home_?" she repeated. "Since when do you tell half-naked redheads to go home?" she asked nastily.

"You've had too much to drink," he snapped.

She laughed mirthlessly.

"I'm not going to accuse you of raping me," she barked.

"I'm not going to rape you," he answered firmly, something painful flashing in his eyes. As angry as he was at her, and as much as he thought he hated her for her blatant abuse of the agency and his team, it cut something deep inside him to hear her suggest he might take advantage of her—rape her. And it gave him a twinge of guilt when her words from moments ago came back to him—

_Jethro. That hurt. _

"You're drunk," he told her coldly. "You aren't gonna find what you want here," he added.

"I told you what I want."

"No," he barked astutely. "You want forgiveness," he snapped. "You want to be told what you did is okay," he went on. "I don't want to hear it. Get out of my basement."

"_Why_?" she asked harshly, her eyes mocking him.

_Why are you asking me to leave when you've _missed_ me_, she was asking.

"I don't want you," he growled sharply.

It must have caught her off guard, because her lips parted, and he swore he heard her gasp as if it had physically hurt her. She turned slightly, her eyes flying up to the ceiling, hot tears springing to her eyes. He hardly flinched at the emotional pain ravaging her face; it was the truth. He had known it when he was kissing her; he didn't want her, not now, maybe not ever again. Things had changed since DiNozzo's undercover op had unraveled.

She pushed him away, and he stepped back willingly, holding out his hand to help her down from the counter. She shoved that away, too, and turned to his counter, standing unevenly. Her stocking and black pump were still on the floor, and her eyes seemed to be fixed on the bottle of bourbon. She reached up and adjusted her shirt, pulling it back over her shoulder, using one hand to push the buttons back through.

She reached out and picked up his abandoned coffee tin, looking at the bourbon left. She turned her eyes on him, and he could clearly see the red in them, the unspilled tears, and the dark circles plaguing her.

"What's wrong with what I did?" she asked icily, throwing his words back in his face.

He almost laughed at her for asking such a shallow question. Surely she didn't think she was innocent, blameless—but then, there was a chance that she did; Jenny had a maddening way of justifying her actions so that even _she_ was blind to the audacity of her own sin.

"You jeopardized your career, Jen," he said stiffly.

"Since when do you give a damn about my career?" she fired back, narrowing her eyes. "You have _never_ respected my position and you have never _once_ expressed an ounce of pride in my accomplishments!"

The venom in her voice took him off guard, and it ignited the animosity that had simmered in embers since she'd come back and brushed him aside like he was nothing to her, and never had been anything to her.

"You think I should be proud of what you've done?"

She stared at him in disbelief.

"I would think it's a point of pride to say you trained the director of a federal agency!"

He pointed to himself.

"I wasn't training the director," he lashed out roughly. "I was training an agent!" He gestured to her curtly, looking her up and down with a careless, contemptuous gaze. "You've become—you aren't an _agent,_ you're a political mouthpiece, you're a tyrant!"

She whirled around, sweeping the bottle of bourbon and the makeshift glasses off the shelf. The coffee tin clattered and spilled, and both of the glass containers shattered—glass exploded over the basement floor and he swore; she didn't seemed fazed by the mess.

"A tyrant?" she repeated, her face flushing. "Because you don't agree with the way I run _my_ agency?"

"Because you broke the number one rule!"

"I don't have a partner to screw over," she said recklessly. "I am _alone_ in that office!"

"And you operate _alone_," he growled, latching onto her words viciously. "You don't think about your people, you don't fight for your people, you're too busy trying to nurse the chip on your shoulder and bust the glass ceiling—"

"Something you'd know nothing about you chauvinistic son of a bitch—"

"And you damn well did screw over your partner the minute you let DiNozzo down!" he shouted over her insults, effectively silencing her for a moment.

She grit her teeth and took a breath, kicking glass aside with one foot, swaying on her feet a little. Her mouth moved.

"That was _never_ any of your business, Jethro," she snarled.

"You made it my business!" he barked. He jabbed himself in the chest. "He's my senior agent! He's my right hand man, and you—you put him through the wringer, you worked him like a goddamn dog and you forced him to lie to Ziva! To his _partner!"_

Jenny shook her head fiercely.

"I gave him a choice, and he wanted _in_," she fired back. "DiNozzo is twice the agent you ever give him credit for being, and he was sick, sick of being coddled and brushed aside by you—like when you came waltzing back from Mexico and took back the team without a word, without a single word of praise for him—"

"You manipulated him!" Gibbs yelled, cutting her off again. "You knew you could twist that insecurity to fit what you wanted and you stroked his damn ego until he was just bigheaded enough to think he was working on something special—"

"Bringing an international arms dealer to justice!"

"Orchestrating a personal vendetta against the bastard who _may have_ killed your father!" Gibbs corrected harshly, his expression harder than rock.

She made a move to lunge forward, and remembered the broken glass.

"He killed my father," she hissed rabidly. "He _murdered_ a respected Colonel of the US Army and _blackened_ his name—he deserved—"

"To die, Jen?" broke in Gibbs violently, goading her.

She glared at him defiantly, and said nothing—and this time, he did laugh. Coldly and mirthlessly, shaking his head at her with derision.

"You put the integrity of the agency in question when you used DiNozzo as a weapon of your grudge—you threw him to the wolves, you almost got him killed, Jen," Gibbs growled aggressively, giving voice to everything he'd been thinking since he found out the mission she'd been running behind his back. "And you don't care—you don't give a damn what happened to DiNozzo, as long as you got your fix—I don't know how you twisted him, but goddamnit, you can't just use my team, DiNozzo deserved better than you _manipulating_ him-"

Jenny took a step closer, this time forgetting the glass. She threw her hands out, her eyes flashing in a dangerous way, they used to flicker when she was about to say something really vile, something that would tear him to shreds, and she didn't let him down this time, she delivered, she _really_ delivered—

"I didn't just manipulate him, Jethro, I _fucked_ him!" she screamed, drowning him out. "Right here! Right in your _holy_ basement! While you were sitting on your ass in Mexico with that son of a bitch Franks. I fucked him _and I liked it_!"

He turned his head away, as if he had been physically slapped, so intense was the emotion that came as the words hit him. His eyes fixed on the shelf where she was pointing, the corner intersection of counters. He felt sick, nauseous—like he would vomit, and the basement seemed to spin for a minute. The tidal wave of anger and pain that gripped him threatened to knock him on his ass before he caught ahold of himself and tried to wrap his head around—her—and DiNozzo—_in his basement_.

"What the hell were you doing in my house?" he demanded hoarsely, unable for a moment to summon the energy to scream back at her.

"Trying to sleep! To find peace, trying to understand you!" she shouted desperately. "You left, you just left—with no warning, _nothing_! You don't know what it was like when you were gone. You abandoned people who relied on you, you acted like a child!"

She tore into him, really letting him have it, as aggressive as he was, and he refused to back down, storming closer and getting in her face. He took her arm and pointed to where she had pointed, to the counter top.

"So you _fucked_ DiNozzo, Jen? To get back at me? That makes _you_ the adult?" he mocked ruthlessly.

"Oh, yeah," she snarled, her teeth bared, "Oh yeah, Jethro how does it feel? How does that make you feel—betrayed, hurt, slighted? Like you made Tony feel when you—like you made me feel you _bastard_?"

Her voice cracked painfully and he released her, stepping back. She swallowed hard, but when she started up again, he could tell it was no use—her words were shaky and hoarse, and she would start crying if they didn't let up soon.

"He looks up to you! He wants nothing more than approval from you—and I know you aren't the guy who's good with words, but you are brutal to the people who need you, Gibbs, you're so fucking petrified of losing them—"

"Shut-up, Jen," he barked coldly, lifting his hand to his head.

"_No_!" she answered harshly. "You think I was selfish going after La Grenouille, you think I'm a bitch, and you think what I did was stupid and amateur—and you stand there, you self-righteous bastard, and you judge me—"

"Self-righteous?" he bellowed, interrupting her, the disbelief written plainly on his face. "You won't take an ounce of responsibility for your actions, Jen!" he shouted. "You come to me, wanting me to hold your hand and tell you they're all being _mean_ to you and _unfair_ to you, and you won't admit that you were wrong! You did _wrong,_ Jen—you screwed the pooch! You made a mistake and I can't fix it for you! You lost control of your mission because you're drowning in obsession and—" he realized he was about to go over the edge and accuse her of something that could end her career, but he didn't stop: "—alcohol."

"You wrote the book on refusing to admit your faults!" Jenny accused, throwing her hands up. "You—you disagree with the fundamental concept of a goddamn apology, so what do you expect? You want me to _say_ I was wrong? Apologize? So you can throw it back in my face and act like a martyr for the cause of chivalry?" She laughed at him cruelly, putting a hand on her hip. "I refuse to apologize for taking down one of the biggest threats to international arms security!"

"Sounds pretty damn good when you censor the other shit you got into," snarled Gibbs, advancing on her again. He narrowed his eyes, holding her gaze. "You destroyed DiNozzo—you ruined that innocent woman—"

"He wasn't supposed to fall in love with her!" shouted Jenny violently.

Gibbs' eyes flashed.

"You always fall in love under cover, Jen!" he roared, rolling his eyes. "It's the goddamn cures of the Feds! You know that better than anyone!"

She gasped, lost for words, and her lips moved soundlessly. She shook her head.

"No! Don't—that's bullshit," she lashed out. "You can't diminish what people feel to a cliché—you can't do that to Tony, and you can't—if you say that, then what we felt in Paris means nothing!"

"It sure as hell meant nothing to you," he growled icily.

She bent forward slightly, her eyes closing. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she looked as if she'd been run through the stomach with something—a bayonet, an Army knife—something tangible that had hurt her. He wasn't prepared for the sob that escaped her, and in fear and surprise, he reached out and gently touched her shoulders—only for her to buck him off. She stumbled away, leaning heavily against the counter, clutching it in her hands, looking at him with a pale, raw expression.

He had the nerve to glare right back at her, but this time she didn't look away. She was trying to come to terms with the anger she was feeling and the distress he was causing her—she had come here and somewhat instigated this fight, this fight she should have known they had to have, but now they were fighting about more than just the Frog, and she wasn't ready for it—and she certainly hadn't expected him to tell her, in his own, veiled, tactless way that he _had_ been in love with her all those years ago. Because that's what he was saying, wasn't it?

_You always fall in love under cover, Jen! It's the goddamn curse of the Feds! _

She held her hand to her mouth and stifled another sob, and inadvertently found herself crying into her wrist for a moment. She swallowed hard and yanked her hand away, pushing strands of hair out of her eyes.

"Why do you refuse to see that there was more to me leaving than a lack of feeling?" she demanded.

"Do you know how Jeanne left him?" Gibbs asked coldly.

She shook her head.

"Do you know how she left him, Jenny?"

"No!" she shouted, squeezing her eyes shut. "I don't want—"

"A letter," Gibbs interrupted poisonously. "She left him a _letter_."

Her eyes flamed.

"Let it go, _Jethro_," she snarled. "It was seven years ago."

"Seven years of unanswered questions."

"You _broke_ me!" she burst out, clutching her hand at her chest. "You wore me down until I couldn't _do_ it anymore—I couldn't take trying to break down your barriers, I couldn't handle being pushed aside when you woke up in a cold sweat and I couldn't bear one more time to look into your eyes and see that blank, empty, hurting expression that you never once let me in on—I was insecure and scared and you did nothing to let me know that you gave a damn about how I was feeling. What reason did I have to stick around and be your next failed marriage? _You broke me, Jethro_!"

He was stunned at the outpouring, and she turned away from his shell-shocked expression, turning her back to him, bending over the counter and grasping the back of her neck in her hands.

"I slept with DiNozzo to get back at you," she said in a low, cruel tone, "and he had the same goal in mind—you failed us, and then you blamed _us, _and you know, you aren't the only one in pain sometimes, and you aren't the only person who needs to find respite and get closure—"

"You used your position to try and murder someone," he broke in caustically. "You ruined Jeanne Benoit's life, Jen—"

"I do not need you to read me a laundry list of my actions," she said coldly, her voice still shaking and hitching. "You never stopped hating me for leaving you," she asserted, "and now I don't think you ever will—but do not stand there and act as if you don't understand where I was coming from when I went after the Frog!"

He glared at her, stepping closer.

"The things you did," he started, but she shook her head sharply, tears spilling down her cheeks again.

"How were we supposed to know you'd come back?" she asked. "DiNozzo chose this. He thought he could do it, and then he went and fell in love with her—DiNozzo, the guy who's never been with a woman longer than three weeks!" she pursed her lips, knowing Gibbs couldn't really fight her on this. "I sent him into a lion's den, but I didn't expect him to go native, Jethro! He didn't either! You can't blame me for the way he feels!"

She took a breath.

"You're pissed because I went over your head, you're pissed because I didn't read you in and for once, for once, Jethro! You were out of the loop, and I didn't trust you, and you expected little probie Jenny Shepard to be in your pocket—and I hate you for that, I hate that you haven't respected me since I took office, and it's likely because you've seen me naked and you're still mad because I told you _no_."

He let her words sink in.

He scowled at her, the old resentment licking at him hot and uncontrollable.

"You didn't even face me," he accused. "You turned tail and ran in Paris—you broke it off like it was a _business_ deal."

"And I never felt like anything more than an alliance to you!" she shouted, jumping back. Her eyes widened again. "You still, you still can't see that I left because of how impenetrable you can be! If you loved me, I never knew! For all I knew, I was getting out of your hair—I didn't know if you gave a _damn_ that I was gone!"

"You didn't ask!"

"I was in love with you!" Jenny shouted hoarsely. "I _loved_ you!"

A silence fell, and there was only the sound of her breathing, trying not to start sobbing again—and failing. She turned her back, and then turned around again, her hands at her mouth, her lashes thick and wet.

"I had never loved any man like I loved you that year in Paris," she told him honestly, her eyes full of raw, scarred emotion. "And you—Jethro, are the hardest man in the world to love, but I did. You didn't want to let me. That's why I left," she paused, swallowing shakily, "and now I know why. And it broke my heart all over to find out about Shannon and Kelly, it meant you had never been as close to me as I was to you, and there was no chance of you ever reciprocating the way I," she broke off. "Don't say Paris didn't mean anything to me," she asked him, closing her eyes.

She slid her hand through her hair and pressed her nose into her wrist.

"Paris meant everything to me," she cried.

He watched her cry, and his eyes travelled down slowly; her foot was bleeding. She'd stepped on the glass. His chest and throat felt tight, he felt like screaming, shouting, burning the boat—he felt trapped, almost overwhelmed by the sudden ache of loss he had from thinking of Shannon and Kelly. He wanted her to go home, he couldn't take it, he didn't like his faults being thrown in his face.

"We aren't in Paris anymore," he said dully. "Paris doesn't have anything to do with this."

"When are you going to realize that every fight we have is rooted in what happened in Paris?" she hissed.

"This isn't about us!" he growled. "This is _bigger_ than us—it isn't about you, either, Jen, or your regrets, or your stupid mistakes! It's about the storm that's about to hit when they find out that you _killed_ Rene Benoit!"

She didn't deny what he'd said; she stayed quiet. Crying quietly, moving her lips, her eyes closed.

"You are going to be the death of me," she said huskily. "You can be heartless, Jethro, you don't care about the kind of destruction you bring people who care about you just by being silent and refusing to connect. You wallow alone here and you sulk and you just drown in your own misery, and then you let it boil over and lash out at people like me, and you forget to value people like DiNozzo—"

"MY FAMILY IS DEAD!" Gibbs bellowed.

She flinched away from him. He was so loud, so unexpectedly _loud_. She almost smiled in relief, though; to finally hear him admit to some of the pain he was suffering. He needed it; he _needed_ someone to hear it from him. She opened her eyes and he was slamming his fist into the boat, ignoring the blood that spouted from his fingers.

"So is mine," Jenny whispered. "And you won't afford me the same depth of grieving."

"It isn't the same," he barked, "it isn't—it isn't the same—!"

"No," she agreed. "He was just my father, just the man who raised me and made me who I am. It isn't the same. I can't imagine losing a child or a spouse. But who are you to decide whose pain is more real? Who deserves more sympathy? You can't understand that someone else might feel the same way you do—like they've been suffocated and crushed by loss, because you so selfishly adhere to your own. Yours is a solitary world of greedy darkness, and you don't want to let anyone in with some help—I am as alone as you are. I never had anyone but my father," she stopped, choking on her words, "but you won't even try to understand that. We can't have them back. They're dead—"

"Goddamnit, Jen!" he shouted, and she swore he was actually going to plug his ears—she'd never seen him so close to breaking in front of her before. She went on harshly.

"They're dead!" she repeated. "And it will _never_ get easier—you'll never get over it, you'll _never_ be the same—but Jethro, you got to avenge them, didn't you? You shot the son of a bitch between the eyes, I can feel it, I _know_ you did, and you can't try to understand what drove me to bring Rene Benoit to his knees?"

Her last words were pleading, and they struck him hard—as if he'd been doused in cold water that somehow brought him understanding. He had been so angry with her; felt so betrayed and utterly screwed, that he hadn't taken a moment to think that maybe the same thing that pushed her to recklessly pursue a CIA case just for the sake of getting one arms dealer was akin to the black emotion that had driven him to Mexico to shoot a drug dealer.

He rubbed his jaw roughly, and walked towards her. He bent down and picked up the stocking and her shoe, and while he was crouched, examined the bloody cuts on her ankle. His hand was gentle, if stiff and unyielding, and she sucked in her breath, swaying. When her hand touched his shoulder for support, and he looked up, he realized how intoxicated she really was.

It was why this had turned into such an explosive battle, a nightmare of emotional warfare. He had fought with Jenny before, but never in such a brutal, savage way—and maybe they had needed this. He was still fighting anger and shame in himself; he was fielding off a hatred that he didn't want to direct towards her, and forcing to keep his old, tired affectionate feelings at bay.

He hadn't been kidding when he said this wasn't Paris—they weren't the same people, and they never would be again.

He stood up, looking at her bluntly.

"You're so drunk, Jen," he sighed heavily, his eyes dull. He was wary, winding down—he wanted her to _go_. "Go home," he said again, and he couldn't help it, he just couldn't resist digging at her one more time: "Call your boyfriend to come get you," he drawled, clearly referring to her little fling with DiNozzo.

She breathed out heavily.

She looked at him hard, never wavering, and her lashes quivered.

"I am _better_ than the worst thing I ever did," she said quietly.

He felt drained, empty. He looked at her balefully; the atmosphere was stale, charged with argument and rage and tension.

"Where's your cell phone?" he asked curtly.

She pulled it out of her pocket, and placed it in his hands.

"I'll call Ziva," he said, in the same dead voice.

"I'm not in her good graces, either," Jenny said dully.

He didn't answer, he was staring at Ziva's number on the phone—she was the only person he trusted to handle Jenny, and she was the only person he trusted to see him like this. His finger lingered over the button to call her. Jen had come to him thinking he would absolve her, erase her sins with his touch, and he hadn't been able to give in to that—he had made her face it, rubbed her nose in it, and now they were standing here in shattered glass and spilled bourbon and blood, and he was conflicted—should he make her leave, make Ziva take her home, or should he take her upstairs and sleep with her, like they always used to?

Jenny leaned back against the counter heavily, taking her shoe from him. She held her hand to her head.

"Jethro," she moaned steadily, looking up at him. She pressed her hand to her lips.

He looked up abruptly, searching for a bucket or something, but couldn't find one, so he took her arm and turned her to the side, just pointing to the floor. She hugged her stomach and vomited; he rested his hand on her back and pushed the button to call Ziva.

She answered on the first ring, as Jenny was straightening up and standing back—stepping closer to him.

"Ziver," Gibbs said, exhausted.

In a clipped, brief tone, he outlined what he needed—come pick up the director, and don't ask any questions. Make sure she gets home safe, and goes to sleep. Stay the night if you have to. Ziva didn't sound happy, but she agreed without questioning him, and she hung up quickly.

Jenny licked her lips, her face pale.

He tossed her phone onto the counter, acutely aware of how close she was standing—and he didn't know why he did it, but he seized her and pulled her close, wrapping her into his arms, burying his face into her hair. She held onto him tightly, bursting into fresh, weak tears, and she found his chest to be unyielding and cool, unlike the warmth and romance she remembered—and he couldn't bring himself to comfort her, he was just showing her that the way they had been was never going to be again; maybe the feelings were dead, maybe they were just dormant, but they were irrevocably changed.

The implicit trust was broken; the fragile friendship that had taken the place of their fierce affair was shattered; irredeemable even. This fight had been the dénouement, the grand, blazing finale of the tension and anger that had brewed between them since his return from Mexico, but it did not leave them facing a clean slate of optimism, it left them facing an uphill battle to regain some semblance of a working relationship, and it forever entombed this night as the night their story was crystallized not as one of the nostalgic love affairs, but as an inevitable tragedy.

* * *

_"Wouldn't it be lovely if we were old? We'd have survived all this._  
_Everything would be easy and uncomplicated, like it was when we were young."_  
_-Katie Morosky; The Way We Were _

* * *

_It was actually fairly emotionally taxing to write this, but so challenging and-well, this is me we're talking about, so of course I thought it fun. My purpose was to call Jenny out for all the irresponsible shit she did, and illustrate Gibbs' faults, too, while showing why their relationship would always be fractured and really unsalvageable after this._

_I think I talk too much in author's notes.  
Hey, review!  
-Alexandra  
story #127_


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